


Quench It.

by ithinkwehitametaphor



Category: Fargo (2014), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/pseuds/ithinkwehitametaphor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is crossover AU fiction featuring Mr. Wrench from Fargo (2014) and X-Men character Quicksilver (Peter Maximoff from Days of Future Past). The AU is set in 1973 which means Quicksilver is still a teen. The story pre-dates the movie, though. Mr. Wrench is about 30 years old.</p>
<p>What's it all about? See what happens when Peter steals from a heavy crime sydicate that is interested in using his skills for a major coup. Guess who's sent over to scare the shit out of him...</p>
<p>This is a work in progress, still! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How fast is your sister?

**Quench it.**

 

_Chapter 1_

 

 

The green Dodge Charger is parked right across the street so he can see who is coming and going. The girl leaves first, she holds her big brother’s hand and he sees her off to school. For a few moments the school bus blocks his view and when it finally moves the brother is gone. How old is he? 17 maybe 18? They didn’t tell him.  
Next comes the mother. She is in her late thirties, wears too much make-up and high heels. Her chestnut-colored hair is mussed up by the breeze. She turns the corner and is gone, too.  
He waits a few more minutes to make sure nobody is coming back, forgot something and gets him into trouble. Then he opens the door and gets out of the car, casually looking around. There is nobody in the street so he ambles over to the front garden and squints at the mailbox. Maximoff. That’s right.  
He walks on, up the few stone steps to the front door. Pebbles crunch under the heavy steps of his cowboy boots.

They told him to be careful. Asked him if he needed a backup guy to tag along. He told them no. If the backup couldn’t sign or translate into ASL for him, he would not need it. The syndicate didn’t have anybody like that handy **just now**. His rasping laugh at that seemed to make them uneasy.  
Flamingo said, the boy was a freak. He had stolen a shitload of property that belonged to them. Mostly small stuff, TV sets and music equipment. But still. A statement needed to be made, they said. You do not steal from the syndicate, they said.  
Also, Flamingo mentioned, they wanted him for his 'talents.' So legend has it that the kid is too fast to be seen. That here is some kind of freak of nature with the perfect thieving ability. The power to be faster than anything or anybody ever was.  
His silent cowboy treatment might not work on the little shit, Flamingo warned him. How do you scare someone you don’t even know is there?

 

He squares his shoulders and adjusts the leather jacket. For a second he has the feeling that something is flitting past him, brushing his legs. But when he looks around there is nothing.  
Was that it? Check-up time?  
He hasn’t got anything revealing in his pockets nor in his car. No identification, no wallet, no weapon no nothing. Only the car keys jingle in his hands. And in his jacket are pen and paper as usual.  
It was a precaution. A guy moving faster then the eye could see? Even if it is just a story, better be careful.  
He rings the door bell once, twice and waits.

 

After a few moments the door opens and the kid looks at him, grinning.  
“Smart not to bring anything. You police? No, too smart for police. Did they send you to ‘apprehend’ me? Because I didn’t do nothing, really. Didn’t do nothing. That’s your dodge, right? No horse for the silent stranger? Cool boots. Are those Levi's? Huh? You mute?”  
He just stares at the silver-haired teenager in the Pink Floyd shirt. It’s the guy that Flamingo described to him. The one that brought his sister to the school bus earlier alright.  
The lip-reading is hard going, the kid talks damn fast. What was that shit about the horse?  
It doesn’t really matter though, he looks down at the boy and then makes a step forward pushing him into the house.  
The kid takes a few steps back in turn but holds his gaze as he slams the front door shut behind him.  
“Deaf.” He says, his voice is deep and somewhat rough.  
“What?” the kid is actually puzzled for the fraction of a second.  
“Only deaf. Not mute,” the corner of his mouth lifts just briefly enough to expose an evil half grin.  
“Oh.” the kid’s face drains of color.  
“You have something that doesn’t belong to you.” his hands twitch while he is speaking. How he hates voicing.  
“So you’re here to take it back? Won’t find anything. Police didn’t find anything either. What’s that act with the leather fringe jacket though? That some kind of fetish of yours? It looks really weird you know. But I guess you can wear such things. Uh-uh. Mmmmh. Nice sideburns.” he licks his tongue across his lips.  
The man ignores the kid, looks over the other's shoulder, while he talks nonsense. There’s a staircase that leads to a lower story. People are unimaginative when it comes to hiding things. Most use either the attic or the cellar. This house is flat-roofed. It has no lofty attic to store a pile of stolen goods.  
“Down there?” he walks past the boy, brushes him aside with his shoulder.  
“Hey!”  
Something flares past him and when he’s downstairs, the kid is already there lounging on a crappy gray sofa, his feet on the arm rest.  
So that’s the trick he can do. Flamingo was right. That **is** fast.  
“What’s your name anyways, stranger?.” the kid cocks his head.  
“Wrench.” he replies sullenly as he looks around.  
The whole fucking place is filled with stolen stuff up to the brim. Boxes of TV sets piled up, a Pong machine in the corner, stacks of electric guitars, amps, cables. mics… enough to set up a dozen rock bands.  
“Wrench. What kind of name is that supposed to be? Your evil hitman nickname? Btw, you can take your stuff back if you like. Except if it’s the Pong machine. I need that one still. It's the future, man, that thing.”

 

And Mr. Wrench says, “500 boxes of Oreos. Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.  
“You want one? You can have one. Or two even,” and the kid is gone. Vanishes and reappears with a plate of Oreos and a glass of milk on it. He's holding the stuff under Wrench's nose expectantly, grins.  
Despite himself Wrench starts to chuckle. Flips an Oreo in his mouth and crunches it down.  
“I’m Peter.” The boy says, extends a hand. But Wrench doesn’t take it.  
This is not a social visit. A food offering is not going to change this.  
He’s supposed to look threatening but he doesn’t see that go down in the near future. Not with this one. _Great_...  
Nevertheless, Wrench squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and stares at Peter.  
“Know who sent me?”  
“Nabisco?”  
Wrench bites his lip and shakes his head.  
“I told you, just take what is yours.” Peter shrugs. “I just do this because I’m bored, I guess. Because I **can** do it. I get bored easily.”  
“Too late.” Wrench sneers.  
“It's never to late for me,” Peter says and whirrs around.  
Next thing Wrench knows the whole stack of Oreos is gone.  
“I don't want your stuff.” Wrench says nostrils flaring.  
“No? Why else then would you be here cowboy? You like to scare little boys?,” Peter laughs, “Or you're here for the booty?” The boy sticks out his tongue.  
Wrench lunges forward, grabs the kid by the collar and lifts him a few inches from the floor.  
Fun time is over, he thinks.  
“Shut up.”  
But he is no longer holding the kid, he's holding a box of cookies. And Peter lounges on the sofa.  
Fuck it. Can't even choke the damn kid properly.  
Suddenly, he lets go of the cookie box and starts to laugh. It's a rather vicious sound. This is so fucked up. The pack of Oreos drops to the floor.  
They send him down here to threaten a kid. A thing beneath his line of work anyways and then all the boy stole is cookies and music equipment. It's all about the skill he realizes. Well then, have fun turning this one into a proper syndicate soldier. Ha, ha. This is probably the most ridiculous thing that ever happened to him on a job.  
Wrench face palms himself, looks up at the boy again.  
Peter sits on the sofa, fascinated to watch the other's face go through a series of emotions. Laughter, a flare of anger with knit eyebrows, resignation. 

Wrench ambles over to the sofa as non-threateningly as possible, hands in his pockets and sits down right next to the kid. Looks at him, squinting.  
“See,” he says “syndicate send me to squash you like a bug. Then bring you back.”  
“And how is that going?” Peter quips.  
The other grins, shakes his head. “Want to meet my boss?”  
“Errr, nope.”  
Wrench purses his lips, nods.  
“Then stop taking syndicate stuff.”  
“I really hope this is not turning into a father son talk here. Can't stand those. Well couldn't. If I even had a father. And you're really hot. Would be a shame.”  
 _What the fuck?_ Wrench coughs. _The insolence.._. He leans over close, pushes his face into the kid's, just staring, breathing.  
Peter gulps involuntarily.  
“Careful,” Wrench whispers and leans back.

He takes out his pen and paper and starts writing. A day, a time, and an address. Underneath: Better be there if you want to protect your family. How fast is that little sister of yours? Or your mom?  
Wrench pushes the note over to Peter and gets up casually. The fingers of his signing hand form a gun and he tips his forehead slightly with it as a way of saying good-bye.  
Then he turns and walks up the stairs.  
Peter looks at the note, “HEY! Wait, what? That's the way you want to play this?”  
But Wrench has his back turned, doesn't see and doesn't care.  
 _What a fuck ass assignment is this?_ As he walks towards the front door he has visions of throttling Flamingo until his eyes pop out of their sockets. Cartoon style death. Yes.  
He closes the front door and walks over to the car. Let's himself fall into the driver's seat and contemplates his options.

Peter sits on the sofa and looks at the note. Fucking shit. He's not sure if this went well or extremely bad. _The syndicate_ , the guy said. What syndicate? He steals stuff from warehouses or shops at random. Every time he wonders if there's a camera that caught him. But even if, what would they do? What could they do to him? Nothing. A teenager robbing 20 TV sets from a shop full of customers in broad daylight and nobody has even seen him? Sure. The cops come and go. Nothing ever happens.  
 _How fast is my little sister!? Fuck._

 Peter gazes out of the window that overlooks the front garden. The green dodge is still there. Maybe he better follows the guy to see what he's doing next. Check out what syndicate he's talking about.

 

tbc.

 


	2. Through a Glass, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: Speech in italics represents ASL. Speech in quotation marks represents voiced English. Speech in quotation marks and italics represents the use of ASL and voiced English combined. ^^

Mr. Wrench adjusts the rearview mirror of the car and sighs. What he needs to do is notify his syndicate contact right now. Let Flamingo take care of it. If he wants the kid for the syndicate, he's got a chance to try his luck tomorrow evening. Maybe they can pressure Peter into a one-time arrangement by threatening his family. But he's not even sure that will work. The kid may be frightened at the moment but he's not stupid at all.  
He turns the keys, starts the engine and sets off; wonders if Peter has decided to follow him or is nursing his wounded ego.  
During the 30 minute drive across town to the meeting point at the diner he has the radio turned on full blast. Lets the vibrations take his mind off of the impending crisis. It's like he can already smell the shit hit the fan.

 

Flamingo is a tall man with long stick-like legs. He sits folded into one of the booths in Smitty's Diner with an empty cup of coffee before him. His eyes look as if the eyelids are constantly inflamed, pink and raw and he rubs them frequently.

He taps a slender forefinger on his nose and contemplates what Wrench has just told him.

 _“So it's – true. The boy is” -_ he stops mid-sentence to search for the right sign “– _fast_.”

 _“Yes. Damn fast. Faster than anything or anyone you've ever seen.”_ Wrench hates to voice and sign at the same time. But someone's gotta learn ASL and Flamingo's the one drew the shortest straw obviously.

_“You set up a meeting?”_

_“Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Basement at O'Malley's.”_ He tries to sign extra slowly.

Flamingo nods. _“I'll have the room prepared.”_

 _“Remember,”_ Wrench warns, _“nobody hangs about the place but you and me. Empty your pockets.”_

Flamingo looks at him quizzically.

The hitman sighs, signs slowly “ _pockets_ ” and voices the word meticulously. _“Empty them. Don't think you can trick him. He'll search you and you won't even know it but for the smug grin on his face. He's clever. The only thing scares him is that I threatened his family.”_

 _“You don't -think- it's worth a – try.”_ Flamingo replies.

He shakes his head wearily. _“I think it's fucking suicide. But it doesn't matter what I think. Someone up there from the bosses wants him, we'll try and get him. Fuck, the kid's probably in the room right now laughing about us.”_ The thought actually amuses Wrench, he takes a sip from his coke to wash the urge to laugh down.

“And from the expression on your face I take it you think that is funny!” Flamingo says out loud, hands gesticulating emphasizing nonsense. There's a note of desperation to his high-pitched voice that Wrench can't hear.

The hitman smirks. _“Fucking hilarious, if you ask me.”_

But Wrench can see the beads of sweat form on Flamingo's face now.

_“You need this to work out that bad, huh?”_

Flamingo purses his lips. _“Maybe. Yes.”_

 

Peter puts on his earphones and starts the music. As soon as the Dodge starts to move, he follows in its track. Running after a car is fairly easy he found out a long time ago. But it's also annoying to have to stop at every red traffic light in the city. Waiting his turn is not one of his strengths.  
The guy called Wrench drives casually across town and finally stops at a generic road side diner with a neon sign announcing: “Smitty's.” Peter watches him from a distance as he shuffles across the parking lot in his leather boots, the fringes of the jacket swinging and the he disappears through the front entrance.  
Peter takes off the headphones and lets them hang around his neck. He feels for some lose change in his jeans pockets and with the next customer he sneaks in at top speed surveying the place. A quick look around the diner reveals the cowboy sitting in one of the booths together with a tall, slender guy. _What an ugly crow_.  
Cautiously, he slows down and slides in the empty booth behind theirs. It's risky but he needs to know what they're talking about.  
When the waitress comes round he orders a coke. Should be safe to talk because the cowboy is deaf. At least they won't recognize his voice.  
To his dismay they never mention any names, not the syndicate's not anything else that would be useful to him. The only thing they talk about is the place where they're supposed to meet him tomorrow and he already knows where that is. He's going to check the pub out later.  
It seems like they want him to become a partner in crime, use him for something? Not going to happen if he can help it. Not going to happen.  
The cowboy croaks “Fuck, the kid's probably in the room right now laughing about us.”  
Peter breathes in deeply and has to suppress an affirmative noise. _Right cowboy. I'm already here. Smart man._  
Finally, is curiosity gets the better of him and he has to take a super-fast peak at the men sitting in the other booth over the back of his own red cushioned seat.  
The thin man sits with his back to him, leans forward but Peter can't see what he's doing. There's a little bald spot on the back of his head, too.  
Mr. Wrench, though, is sipping coke out of a straw from a bottle on the table in front of him, his face slightly red like he's suppressing a serious attack of laughter.  
Peter turns back and slides into his seat, sighs deeply. He's not sure the tingling in his stomach is only fear anymore. _Pull yourself together. This is not about you. It's about your sister, man._  
Eventually, the syndicate men pay the tab and leave. He can hear the bells over the door jingle and sees Wrench through the windows as he moves across the parking lot.

It might be time to check out O'Malley's now. Instead he throws the small change from his pocket on the table and follows the green car to its next destination.


End file.
